


Random Undertale Shorts

by keelywolfe



Series: Spicyhoney Standalones [20]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale), Undertale Saves and Resets, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: Random Undertale shorts and drabbles.
Relationships: Grillby/Sans (Undertale), Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Spicyhoney, Underswap Papyrus/Underfell Papyrus
Series: Spicyhoney Standalones [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925041
Comments: 88
Kudos: 140





	1. Dadster

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted a place to toss any random Undertale bits that I come up with and don't fit anywhere else.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what Gaster expected when he created the machine.

* * *

When Gaster designed the machine, the goal was to discover a way to get past the barrier without having to break it. After all, the fastest way from point a to point b wasn’t a straight line, but rather, no line at all. 

What he hadn’t planned on was instead of bypassing the barrier, he managed to accidentally confirm the multiverse theory. That was going to require going over his notes again diligently to find what calculation was off on which equation. But that would have to come later, right now Gaster had other things on his mind. 

Behind him, the front door opened and soft footsteps from slippered feet came towards him. Gaster did not look up, only took another drag off his cigarette as his eldest son sat down next to him on the frosty stairs. 

Sans picked up the mostly empty pack of cigarettes where they sat on the porch along with the ragged book of matches. He shook one out, the flare of the match bright in the darkness and as he lit it, he said around it, the words blurred, “shouldn’t smoke these, pop, they’ll kill ya.”

“ _From what I’m gathering from our guests, cigarettes are the least of my worries_ ,” Gaster said dryly. Signing along with the words was automatic and as he did, he flicked ash into the snow. “ _Are they sleeping?”_

“yep. well, most of ‘em, anyway. stretch and red are out cold. blue’s rooming with papyrus and from the chatter coming out from under the door, they ain’t asleep yet.” Gaster gave his son a quelling look and Sans’s grin widened. “sorry, pop, _aren’t_ asleep yet. only a matter of time.” Sans’s expression sobered, smile fading, “the pointy one isn’t asleep yet, don’t think edge is gonna close his sockets ‘till we hit the hay.”

 _“That’s not surprising, all things considered.”_ Gaster took a long drag off his cigarette as he recalled meeting the one his youngest son happily dubbed ‘Edge’, who despite his battered skull and jagged scars looked so very much like Papyrus that it was painfully disturbing. Barely out of childhood and the stories these boys told in their bland, clipped words as they described their worlds—

Gaster stubbed out his cigarette savagely and stole the pack back from Sans, shaking out another. 

A gentle elbow jostled him as he fumbled with the matches. “you okay, pop?”

 _“Me? I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”_ He lit the cigarette, tasting bitter smoke. _“We may be trapped underground, but I have two sons that I love very much, I have a duty that I enjoy, I have so much. It’s those boys who aren’t okay.”_

Boys who were now trapped in their world, two extra sets of sons whose own fathers sounded as if they did not deserve the title. DNA donors, perhaps, or abusers, yes, fucking _abusers_ sounded more accurate. Monsters they might all be, but his alternates were truly monstrous. He’d seen the numbers carved into the bones of Stretch’s wrist, he’d looked into Red’s determination-tainted eye lights and seen horrors. From Blue’s almost desperate cheer and Edge’s emotionless distance, he couldn’t begin to fathom what these boys had endured and perhaps they were adults, but all Gaster could see when he looked at them were children. 

His children.

“yeah,” Sans agreed softly, and how difficult must it be for his son to see such damage in others who bore his face. Gaster groped blindly for his son’s hand, clutching the cold bones against his own. Those fingers squeezed back three times, an old joke between them from when Sans and Papyrus were only children and at the point of being embarrassed by a too visible show of fatherly affection. Hands, though, Gaster spoke in Hands, and three squeezes meant, ‘I love you’. “they’ll be okay, pop.”

 _“Do you think so?”_ Gaster asked. He shouldn’t, his son did not deserve to bear the weight of his worries, but Sans only gave him a cheeky wink.

“with a dad like you looking after them?” Sans teased. “yeah. i do.”

_“At their ages, I doubt they want or need a father.”_

“nah, i don’t think you’re ever too old to want a dad.” 

Gaster did not know how true that contemplative statement would become. The coming months that would involve many changes— like altering the color of his lab coat because the white seemed upsetting for some of his boys and Gaster didn’t give a damn if there were titters about his new tie-dyed ensemble. Coming up with meals in triplicate for the needs of those with delicate HP and when he discovered Red hoarding food beneath a loose floorboard, he only replaced it with packaged options for the boy so nothing would rot or attract pests.

Plenty of changes, so many nights waking up to soothe Blue’s nightmares. Calmly indulging Stretch’s frequent need to nap until he stopped jerking awake, cringing from nothing, and petitioning the king to allow Edge to begin training with the guard. These boys, like his sons and yet not, each with their own personalities and quirks, in such desperate need of a father, and Gaster would give them whatever they could allow themselves to accept.

For now, Gaster only squashed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and squeezed his son’s hand. Three squeezes, I love you, and Sans pulled away, punching him lightly on the arm. “c’mon in, pop, at least pretend to go to bed so the edgelord will.”

 _“Yes, father,”_ Gaster said, sotto voce, and he followed his son inside. 

-finis


	2. Déjà Vu All Over Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little look at how a reset might appear to someone on the other side of the button. 
> 
> Here's some Sansby for y'all. M for mature!

* * *

It was late enough that the snow outside was falling into a hushed darkness. The glow of a sign flickered from open to closed, the shades drawn down, and the front door shut with the quiet click of a lock. 

From his usual seat, Sans let his head drop lower to rest his forehead on his folded arms.

"s’rry, grillbz, i know it’s closing time." Silence, but that was all right. Grillby was nothing if not assertive and if he wanted Sans gone, he'd already be packing it in. Normally, he wouldn't need to ask, but tonight didn't feel like it was well-acquainted with normal. The chill outside seemed as though it was waiting for him to get up, ready to grasp him with icy fingers as he made his way home and Sans was in no rush to give it the chance. 

The second-to-last customer had shuffled out into the night some few minutes before and the bar was already wiped down. Sans could hear the rasp of the broom and the quiet crackle of Grillby moving behind him. Soothing in its normality and Sans let himself drift, not quite asleep nor awake.

As always, Grillby's voice was less of a sound and more of a presence. _Your brother will be waiting for you._

"mmmhmm," Sans mumbled into his folded arms. He would, maybe. The lack of texts made that less likely and much as Papyrus appreciated a bedtime story, there was a good chance he'd had an inkling of Sans's mood and decided to let him be for tonight. He could be startlingly perceptive like that; yet another reason his bro was the coolest. 

A sudden rush of warmth tickled across the back of his neck, delicate and precise, a single finger of flame tracing his cervical spine. Drifting into his hoodie to follow the line of his jaw. 

"like that is it?" Sans asked, sleepily, rousing enough to lean into the touch. Grillby didn’t often offer and Sans didn’t always accept but tonight…tonight it seemed too cold outside, home seemed too far away even with a shortcut, and Paps was probably already asleep. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "got a _burning_ desire tonight, do ya?"

Silence. Sans wondered if he was about to get tossed out on his non-existent ear and accepted it as his due. Instead, he felt a gust of heated air on the back of his skull, almost like a reluctant chuckle. Hey, that was already better than most of his audiences. 

Sans stretched, bracing his hands in the small of his back and groaning. "we gonna do this upstairs like adults?"

A crackle of agreement, less words than simple approval, and Sans knew the way. Not like it was hard to figure out; a trip through the fire escape, past the kitchen, and up the stairs was hardly a puzzle worthy of his brother’s usual. 

He'd barely made it through the door when a sudden rush of heat pressed against his back, flaring over him as fiery arms wrapped around him. Drawing him insistently towards the sofa and Sans could appreciate that, the way Grillby tugged him along rather than scooping him up. That was something about Grillbz that Sans had always cherished, ‘cause nothing put Sans off his game faster than getting yanked off his feet. He was short, yeah, but he wasn't a kid and wasn't about to let anyone treat him like one. 

Grillby sat on the sofa, drawing Sans in to stand between his legs. Not exactly the subtlest of hints. 

“oh, you really are in a mood,” Sans murmured. He could count on one hand the amount of times Grillby had wanted him on top, a fire elemental's dominating nature coupled with Sans’s natural laziness. 

But tonight, ah, tonight didn't feel like an ordinary night. 

He let Grillby pull him in, drawing him down, and that heat, stars, just

* * *

_Stay Determined!_

* * *

It was late enough that the snow outside was falling into a hushed darkness. The glow of a sign flickered from open to closed, the shades drawn down and the door closed with the quiet click of a lock. 

From his usual seat, Sans shifted uncomfortably, feeling oddly warm, prickles of unaccustomed heat rippling over his bones. Absently, he rubbed a hand over his skull, grimacing as magic-laced sweat clung to it. 

Sans could hear the rasp of the broom and the quiet crackle of Grillby moving behind him. It should have been soothing, homely; instead, it made Sans feel restless and wanting. 

"hey, uh, you mind if i…" he started, trailing off. Sans had never actually initiated, well, any of this. From the very beginning, it was Grillby who'd escalated ridiculous jokes into subtle flirting into…well, whatever this was. If he'd ever expected Sans to put any effort into it, he'd never said so, and Sans was usually more than content to follow wherever Grillby was leading this. 

A sudden clatter behind him made him jump, half-turning to see what the sound was and he only caught a glimpse of the fallen broom before he was caught in a set of fiery arms, flailing briefly in shock as heat engulfed him. 

Flames licked over him painlessly and Sans sighed, leaning back into their soothing caress. "sounds like a yes to me," Sans slurred out, and he couldn't bite back a whimper as a concentrated lick of heat trailed down his jawline to his collarbo

* * *

_Stay Determined!_

* * *

It was late enough that the snow outside was falling into a hushed darkness. The glow of a sign flared as ‘open’ faltered into ‘closed’ before the shades came crashing down, one side hanging lopsidedly, and the door slammed shut with a sharp crack. 

Sans nearly fell off the stool, already struggling to strip off his hoodie. Grillby was flickering wildly, coming towards him so quickly it was as if he were the one who could teleport. Both hands fisting in Sans’s t-shirt and Sans could faintly smell the material scorching as (and for once he didn't protest the manhandling, not tonight, not, not,) he was lifted off his feet to sit on the edge of the bar, one slipper falling free. Kissing a fire elemental was a lot like licking a charred ember, bitter carbon and heat against his conjured tongue and

* * *

_You Cannot Give Up Just Yet..._

* * *

It was late enough that the snow outside was falling--

“oh, come on!” Sans burst out, flopping back onto the floor. His shirt was damp with sweat, his hoodie hanging off one arm as he struggled to get it off, off!

Grillby rolled them so that Sans was on top, practically falling between his legs, both of them struggling to undo his belt, fuck, why couldn’t he wear shorts like Sans did, and his moan echoed through Sans’s skull as he got a hand between Grillby’s legs. His cunt wasn’t wet, how the fuck could it be, but it was _something_ , slippery to the touch, all but sucking his fingers in greedily and Sans jerked his shorts down, his cock so hard it ached, felt like he’d been hard for fucking ever when he managed to line up and push into that slippery, wicked heat, their mutual scream echoing through the bar.

Sans was too short to kiss and fuck at the same time, had to settle for watching Grillby writhe under him and yeah, that was fine, got him a front row seat to the show. The way his fingers scrabbling against the floor as Sans started to thrust, leaving blackened scorch marks, his soundless cries reverberating through Sans’s skull like shouting in a cave in Waterfall, fuck, yes, gorgeous as hell. The ripple of his pussy around Sans’s cock was almost uncomfortably hot and he was already embarrassingly close, orgasm spangling its way up his spine while the salt taste of his own sweat clung thickly to the back of his tongue. 

Close, so fucking close, he was cl

* * *

_You're Going To Be Alright!_

* * *

Sans accepted the cigarette wearily, pulling in a long drag. The floor of the bar was clean enough, but it sure as fuck didn’t meet the librarby dictionary’s definition of comfortable. The smoke filled his rib cage as he inhaled, nicotine incorporating into his magic along with the weird, sated feeling of somehow being well fucked. Didn’t make any kind of sense, how they went from Grillbz closing the bar to somehow ending up on the floor with an afterglow, but eh, Sans wasn’t gonna question it too hard. 

“someday, you’re going to have to explain how you manage to roll your own, grillbz,” Sans said, lazily. Grillby’s cig was smoldering to cinders from the first second it touched his ‘mouth’. 

His arm without the cigarette worked decently as a sort of overly warm pillow beneath Sans’s skull. Nice thing about not having bones of his own was that Grillbz could twist his arm about any which way he liked, which, right now meant his warm fingers were grazing against Sans’s jawline. _Stay over?_

Sans snorted aloud, leaning into that touch. "may as well. the way things are going, seems like this could be a long nigh

-fin


	3. Dadster #2 (Rules for Dating My Sons)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to [Dadster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277687/chapters/58515061)
> 
> Couldn't resist adding on to it a little for Father's day! Tossing in some spicyhoney for flavor, come on, like I can resist?

* * *

"hey, pop, can you hand me the other spanner?"

Gaster looked up from the formula that was currently blurring before his eyes. There was an error in it somewhere and yet, the more he stared at the paper, the more the numbers floated in front of his vision defiantly. 

A break was in order and this was a good excuse for one. He stood, pressing both hands into the cramped small of his back with a groan, then made his way to the other side of the lab. There was a hulking dropcloth-covered bulk in the furthest corner and around the backside, a skinny pair of legs poked out from under it. A tray was lying on the floor close by, tools lined up neatly, and Gaster crouched, considering them. A least three of them were spanners. 

_“Which one?”_ Gaster asked and when there wasn’t a reply, he sent two of his conjured hands beneath the…ah. The vehicle? He supposed that designation would do for now, deathtrap was likely closer, and he resigned himself to plenty of worries if and when Stretch got it working. He signed his question again beneath the troublesome thing and this time an answer floated out. 

“three-eighths—” there was a loud clunking sound. “shit, no, seven-sixteenths.”

 _“Language,”_ Gaster said teasingly, even as he put the spanner into the grubby hand that appeared.

That hand vanished immediately, and scrabbling noises followed. “c’mon, pop, don’t you start. blue already has me by the balls, i don’t need you giving ‘em a squeeze.”

 _“I’ll thank you to spare me that mental imagery,”_ Gaster said dryly. But he didn’t bother to scold; Stretch was more engineer than scientist and there was a longstanding tradition of a certain amount of verbal vulgarity in that particular trade. 

There was another clunking sound followed by an appropriately irritated curse. “sorry, sorry, this fu-friggin thing is stuck good.”

The loud bang of metal hitting metal was also traditional and Gaster shook his head. _“Let me get you a lubricant, it may help.”_

He ignored his son’s snicker, “sure, let’s lube it up, get it into a slippery situation, might be my saving grease.”

Gaster only shook his head, suppressing his own smile. To hear Stretch making puns and laughing warmed his soul, evaporating his frustrations over that silly equation. It didn’t seem that long ago that Stretch spoke only in biting sarcasm, mocking humor that never reached his eye lights. Little by little that tight shielding flaked away, cautiously revealing the gentle, vulnerable soul hidden beneath it and Gaster might tease, but he would never, ever do anything to take away Stretch’s little amusements. 

Time and patience was all Gaster had on his side when it came to these boys, his boys. He should have been their father, wished fiercely that he could have been and spared them all the pain of their pasts. Lacking that, he’d do what he could and if a silly, vulgar pun helped, he’d listen to each and every one. 

A light knock on the door halted him before he reached the cupboards. He paused, considering, then decided the lubricant could wait a moment. 

_"Come in,"_ Gaster called. He already knew who it was, the only one of his boys who would ever knock. 

Out of all of them, Edge was the one who resisted his overtures the most. Gaster didn't press, allowing him to find his own way and only hovered in the background, offering what meager encouragement that the thick armor of Edge’s pride would allow. 

He stood in the doorway now, not quite passing the threshold. He couldn’t have been home for long, Edge’s sentry shift lasted well into the afternoon, but he’d taken the time to change out of his uniform and into a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Despite the more casual clothing, his speech was always formal, almost stilted, "Gaster, I was hoping to speak with you."

Edge was also the only one of the children who unironically called him by name. It was a step up, in a way. At least Edge stopped calling him 'sir'.

 _"Of course,”_ Gaster gestured to the chairs by the desk, settling into his own. _“What can I do for you?"_

Even sitting, Edge’s spine was ramrod straight and he folded his gloved hands into his lap as he said, bluntly. "It's about Stretch."

The silence from the far corner of the room was telling and Gaster very much hoped he wouldn't regret saying, _"What about him?"_

"It's just--" To Gaster’s astonishment, Edge faltered, looking down. There was none of his normal arrogant confidence on his twisting face and his hands knotted into his lap as he struggled for words. “He…that is…”

 _"Yes, I think you should ask him out,"_ Gaster said baldly. 

Bright crimson magic flooded Edge's face, settling high on his sharp cheekbones. When they’d first come to this world, Gaster had been privately worried for Edge and Red; their physiology was different than the other brothers and it was not an exaggeration to call their appearance fearsome. Never had he been more grateful for Asgore’s kindness than in those early days of their arrival when he not only agreed to allow Edge to join the guard, but introduced him personally around the Underground, particularly in Snowdin where Edge was stationed. As Gaster understood it, Edge was quite popular with the children there and protective as well. 

The pride in his soul as he watched Edge slowly flourish was only diminished by one last concern and today it seemed to be coming to a head. 

"I couldn’t,” Edge blurted. He did not fidget, but his crimson eye lights darted around. “I’ve always been grateful for your hospitality and—"

 _"You could,"_ Gaster interrupted calmly. He left aside the comment about hospitality, pushed away the faint frustration that came with it, _"And I would approve. Stretch is a charming young man and handsome as well.”_

One who did not lack for suitors and they both knew it. Stretch never lacked for company, although he’d never gone on more than one date with any of them. He still kept people outside of their family at arm’s length and was always clear about the casual nature of those relationships. 

Gaster had his own suspicions on why that was. 

"But I couldn’t,” Edge repeated doggedly, “it could ruin things for you, for all of us.” He looked up then, his eye lights imploring, “What if I ask and he turns me down, or if he didn't and things went terribly. It would change everything!”

 _"It could, that is true,”_ Gaster slouched back in his chair, lacing his hands over his middle and signing on with his conjured ones. _“Life is change. My life changed when you and the others came here. Perhaps it will work out, perhaps it won't, but stagnation destroys growth. If you want to ask him out, then ask him, and if something comes of it, wonderful, and if it doesn’t, we’ll work past it.”_

Edge nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you, I appreciate your assurance. I didn’t want to presume.”

He stood abruptly and left without another word. Gaster idly wondered how much longer they’d all be waiting for him to ask. He hoped Edge at least waited until Sunday; that was his chosen day in the betting pool. 

From the far corner of the room came words, no longer muffled by drop clothes and engines, "so do i really need to wait for him to ask or can i do it for him? ‘cause i've been waiting, he took forever to read the dating manual.”

Gaster looked over at his son, at his grease-covered clothes and the spanner in his filthy hand, the unrepentant grin on his dirty, delighted face. 

_"Stagnation is death, but patience is also a virtue,"_ Gaster said dryly. _"Wait for him, there’s time enough. And if you’re finished for today, I’ll thank you to clean up.”_

"sir, yes, sir,” Stretch’s grin widened even as he turned back around, calling back slyly, “guess the lubricant will have to wait for another day.”

 _“Cheeky,”_ Gaster murmured, chuckling to himself and pulled his work back towards him. This time it took him less than a minute to find the error in the equation and he erased it, penciling in the correct number. Before he could finish, Stretch scooted around behind him and there was a light brush of teeth against the top of his skull. 

“thanks, pop.” Soft, sincere words, and Gaster closed his sockets briefly, affection for this boy, for all his boys, swelling in his soul. 

_“You’re welcome. Now go get washed up for dinner.”_

“uh huh, you better be heading up,” Stretch said, “blue’ll come drag you up if you don’t.”

 _“I’ll be right behind you,”_ Gaster assured him. He went back to work, absently hearing the door closing behind Stretch. He was almost finished and then he’d head upstairs, to what would surely be an interesting meal if nothing else, depending on who cooked today. 

Either way, it would be a perfect dinner. So long as his boys were all there, it always was. 

-finis-


	4. Two-Sided Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlike his brother, Stretch actually liked Hotland, but eh, there are ways to ruin anything. 
> 
> (A little Sans and Stretch friendship, although I supposed you could look at it as honeyketchup if you squint)

* * *

Hotland was probably Stretch’s favorite place for sentry duty. No slushy snow sogging down his slippers or chilly breezes creeping down the back of his sweatshirt. Plus, he could make an extra buck or two selling corn dogs or corn cats or even the occasional shush kitty. If Stretch had his way, he’d live in Hotland, but his bro couldn’t stand it. Hated the heat, the way it made him sweaty under his battle body and made him stink like grubby socks, hated the puzzles. Just, hated it loudly and in general. Better to stay in Snowdin where his complaints were mere dislike instead of dealing with brotherly misery. 

He probably would have been less eager to move to Hotland anyway if he had to walk through it every day rather than take a shortcut. But it was the only way to get where he was going, he could only shortcut where he’d already been and as many times as he’d been to his own sentry post in Underswap, he’d never been to Sans’s version in his world. It wasn’t too hard to navigate, all Stretch had to remember was to turn left where at home he’d turn right and soon enough the station came into view. The heavy snow that lay heavy on its roof despite the heat was the same as his own, a cheap spell that never failed to make him smile.

He didn’t smile now.

Sans was sitting behind the sentry post, his hands laced together over his middle and his slippered feet crossed at the ankles. He didn’t open his eye sockets as Stretch approached, only stayed slouched in his chair as he said, “whatcha doing here, honey bun?"

"your bro called me." No reason to prevaricate to Sans. Stretch wasn't sure about Red, he'd never been able to get a clear answer as to what he knew or did or what the fuck was even up with Underfell. But Sans, he knew, they both knew too much, always, and when Papyrus called him, quiet as he never was and soberly concerned, Stretch already knew he’d be coming here. 

Sans snorted, rubbing a mittened hand over his nasal cavity. "tell 'im i'm fine.

"i will." He wouldn't. Not until Sans was and the dark shadows under his sockets spoke librarbies. 

He didn't ask if it was a bad one. He didn’t need to. 

_“you’re a judge, too, huh?” Sans looked him up, up, and down, and Stretch did not squirm even though he wasn’t used to being on the other side of that look, the Look that saw too much, saw everything, from every kind action down to every sin a person ever committed, and in those people where the evil acts outweighed the good, seeing it, being_ forced _to see it—_

Sans liked to pull pranks, but he wasn’t the only one who knew how get up to shenanigans. Stretch took a shortcut, a quick sidestep that landed him in Sans’s chair with the other skeleton suddenly in his lap. He wrapped his arms around Sans and held on, idly noticing that he weighed less than Blue. Maybe it was the lack of armor. 

Sans didn't protest, not an inch of struggle. He settled in as if Stretch was a particularly comfy chair, wriggling his tailbone uncomfortably against Stretch’s femurs. "what the fuck are you doing?" Sans asked idly.

Stretch shrugged and held on. "you won't let your bro do it and he called me, so now it's my problem. shut up and take it."

"kinky." But Sans only settled more comfortably against him, his skull resting against Stretch’s sternum as if he were drowsing. Time passed and Stretch could hear the crackle of the nearby lava flow, see the shimmer of baking heat coming up off the ground. He held on until Sans made a soft, almost imperceptible noise and a little shudder went through him. In a small voice, he said, "it was really bad."

Stretch closed his sockets, screwed them tightly shut and did not think of past Judgements of his own, of the feeling of sins that weren’t his own crawling up his spine. He hugged Sans until his arms began to ache, his skinny hands locked together around him and said nothing when his shoulders started to shake. Didn't tell him it was okay, that was a lie even he couldn’t manage convincingly. Didn’t soothe or cajole or plead or tease, none of the things he knew their brothers might have tried. Didn't try to do anything but be right here.

A bead of sweat ran ticklishly down his spine and Stretch barely held back a gasp at the stir of memory, viciously suppressed, and decided he was wrong. Hotland was a shitty place to be. He held Sans tightly, didn’t watch as he silently wept, and couldn’t fucking wait to get back home. 

-fin


End file.
